Save Me From Myself
by the-science-of-evidence
Summary: One hundred and nineteen years relentlessly passed since that day and every year that conceded vampires became closer and closer to extinction. Hunter clans were raised from different parts of the world—with one goal: annihilate all Vampires. War after war ensued amid the two races… Battles were won, but the war was not. JohnLock AU Sherlock!Vampire John!Hunter M for later chap
1. Prologue

**[Title: Save Me From Myself**

**[Pairing: JohnLock**

**[Other notes: AU**

**[Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock BBC or Sherlock Holmes in any way possible.**

* * *

**Prologue: How Far Has the Damned Fallen?**

* * *

Five minutes past twelve. Still no sign of him amidst the blind darkness of the alleys, nothing but the silent drops of water that echoed mercilessly throughout the closed space—

"Where is he?" a hiss erupted from the shadows where two figures blended into the obscurity of the night. One continued, with the same voice from earlier, hoarse and anger-laced, "You told me he's coming—"

A soft sigh cut the noise, sending every single sound to a halt.

The two men froze, their pulses raising as silence ensued… They remained still, and alert, eyes constantly searching uselessly, their thoughts silently praying for safety and a miracle. Regret flushed through their very beings as every second passed. Oh, how they wanted to run despite knowing it was futile.

"My, my…" the baritone voice, more enticing than a siren's, resounded from was bitterly cold, every syllable rolled off like a perfect melody ready to triumph over theweak.

Inevitably, the two looked up—there, a lithe figure sitting cross-legged at the ledge of the tall building's façade adjacent to them. His eyes were bright crimson reflecting bloodshed and mayhem, his skin illuminatingly pale as the moon's radiance contrasting to ebony clothe. The ledge was his stage, the midnight sky his onlymilieu, and he was the climax—the actor that brought everyone to their knees with unsighted awe.

"You—" the latter's speech was cut off within his throat with a slight stifle as the virulent breeze suddenly pass them.

In a blink, the crimson-eyed stranger was before them with a bored yet calculating gaze, neither of the two had the power to move… they were immobile under the stranger's presence.

The stranger straightened himself up and muttered, "Dull."

In the tyrant's eyes, he saw measly humans. Boring, predictable humans. Both were waiting for a broker, a drug dealer who was intended to come out three, no, _two_ hours ago. Their eyes were impressively dilated from extensively waiting in the darkness, and their hands constantly shaking from anticipation and apprehension. They were young, fresh out of college, and had a recent addiction to drugs—heroine. Judging by the state of their clothes, they hold a respectable position in the recently opened newsprint company, The Gazette. Inkblots from their hands, and a small smudge along one's collar and cuff, so they're likely in a hands-on job as a typist.

Out of bravery or stupidity, one spoke softer than a whisper, "…W-What do you want?"

"Two-hundred and forty-three," the stranger muttered rolling his eyes.

They looked at him in question, but fear prevailing over the others.

A heavy sigh, "Two-hundred and forty-three times someone asked me the exact same question."

Only then did his eyes glint a tone of boredom and something else, something more than simple desire… The stranger turned on his heels and walked away disappearing into the shadows casted upon the towering buildings leaving nothing two siphoned corpses.

* * *

**ABloodStainedLetter, **

**over & out**


	2. Chapter One

**[Title: Save Me From Myself**

**[Pairing: JohnLock**

**[Other notes: AU**

**[Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock BBC or Sherlock Holmes in any way possible.**

* * *

**Chapter One: A Study In Vampires**

* * *

One hundred and nineteen years relentlessly passed since that day… and every year that conceded vampires became closer and closer to extinction. Hunter clans were raised from different parts of the world—with one goal: annihilate all Vampires. War after war ensued amid the two races; blood was spilled every year, human and vampire alike mercilessly killed by each other… Battles were won, but the war was not.

It was an inescapable fate between the two; they only had a choice of kill or be killed.

Only one side to fight for and only one side to die for.

Their race was their law.

Their kin was their system.

Freedom was spoken through weapons and armor.

No peace, no treaty.

The sentiment to win ruled their hearts...to the point of insanity.

It was 1982 when vampires were then announced extinct to the world as humans won the final War. Sending out human suicide missions on planting Vampire Annihilating Poison Ammunition within the VAMP Project… It was indeed successful, and what's left of the vampires became nothing more than servants and exiles to the human race.

* * *

Year 2010.

He leaned back against the leather car seat, mutely counting the moments as the façade of St. Bartholomew's Hospitalcame into sight. Listlessly anticipating it to be the same apart from a few renovations here and there, but it seems he was completely mistaken, nothing has changed. And it was surely frustrating since everything changed as it is and he doesn't and couldn't do anything especially with his inane brother's constant surveillance and overprotection.

Twenty-eight years has certainly got the best of him.

A sharp intake of unneeded breath entered his pale lips right after a lump emerged in his throat … He, to be honest, was cynical of what he was to do. For the prior years, he did almost everything he could just to leave England and overwrite the memories in relation to _it_—for him, well, it was simply _transport_. He suffers not from emotions nor feelings but rather his own mind, the past that he sought to forget. The past that was perfectly veiled under his faultless mask, buried someplace no one can _ever _find… and sometimes, he wished, also _he_ couldn't find. But no matter what he did, they were _there_. Every single detail etched imperfectly within his mind akin to vivid scars that did beyond than just defile…

Shutting his eyes, he breathed heavily… It was somehow distressing, to simply be called back for a cold case—it was interesting, yes, but his senses were screaming all day, it was against his very being to turn back and leave this for tomorrow. His being shouting: 'Not today!' He couldn't perceive any logical rationale about the coiling numbness within him. It was like a hundred year old instinct coming back up at him, making him want to throw up.

He rolled his eyes at his own idiocy, though it never really reached his face. His appearance said nothing about his inner turmoil…

Light still shone from the tinted windows of the taxi, he clenched his fists out of instinct as the vehicle came to a full stop. He opens the door, and pays the cabbie without much as a thank you. He walked off, in his usual stand. His hands deep within his pocket as his coat billows around him, his scarf tucked warmly around his neck and his suit perfectly fitting for his physique.

He pushed open the doors of the hospital and walked towards the elevator, it was a quick ride up. No one was really rushing to go up to the morgue at anytime of the day. As he got up, he walked through the doors without anyone caring—they were used to him barging in and out of this place.

With a weighty sigh, he opened the door and was greeted politely by…an acquaintance, Molly Hooper. He replied with a mere grunt and immediately headed for the bag and unzipped it revealing the corpse in relation to the current case.

"How fresh?" The words rolled off his mouth as he started deducing the male.

"Just in, sixty-seven, natural causes…" she noted thoughtfully as she walked around the male, "He used to work here. I knew him. He was nice."

The male fought the urge to groan at her superfluous self-opinions, he zipped the back and threw her a false smile, "Fine. We'll start with the riding crop."

She stared at him blankly and the next thing she knew, she was outside of the morgue watching the eccentric detective do his thing. Seriously, why did she ever fall for the man? She returned trying to start small talk only to get caught embarrassingly about her lipstick, which she feebly managed to deflect—and note to self, offering him coffee isn't really a good idea.

"Black, two sugars, please. I'll be upstairs." He muttered walking out uncaringly.

Immediately after, he walked towards the elevator. Everything around him was so boring and unbelievably slow—it was tedious in some cases. Like today, a case… yet he knew he was going to finish it today, and after, nothing. Back to boredom, again.

Walking into the chemical research lab, he found himself alone. He was pleased with this, not distractions what-so-ever. A pang of relief settled in his veins yet his instincts were still running wild, he shook his head and began working on his own experiment. Loosing track of time was impossible for him, but he knew how to use his time well enough. He removed his coat and scarf, placing it on a vacant seat and continues a left out experiment.

He found himself standing in the far end of the lab, hunched over a petri dish with a pipette in hand as two males entered, and almost immediately, his eyes glanced over them… Mike Stamford and a blond—in a flash, his head burned with affliction and yet he kept his façade up. He looked down again a second later already knowing everything, ignoring the painful throbbing of unwanted instinct, he continued his experiment half-listening to the conversation.

_ He was a male in his early fourty's, sent from someplace… Tan… Afghanistan. Or pension… Ah, so no permanent home place. Thus, flatmates. Me. Either way. Worked as under military service—sent back home: .Psychosomatic limp. Still… he's human. No… he's not. Wait… Ah, he's a hunter—from a line of hunters. An … Interesting. Why is he here? He doesn't know much. Never fought or even met a vampire before._

"Well, a bit different from my day." The blond stated in a-matter-of-factly.

Mike chuckled as he took his usual seat, "You have no idea."

"Mike, can I borrow you phone." The male suddenly said after checking his phone, "There's no signal on mine."

Mike looked at him, "And what's wrong with the landline?"

"I prefer to text." Was his only reply.

The latter spoke, "Sorry, it's in my coat."

Out of politeness or modesty, the blond spoke up, "Er…here…" he said reaching for his back pocket, "Use mine."

The brunette looked briefly at Mike, "Oh," then at the blond calculatingly, "Thank you." He then walks up to the blond and only then Mike introduces him.

"It's an old friend of mine," Mike says, "John Watson."

_Ah… the Watson Clan. Interesting._

The male takes the phone, his mind immediately tucking the information of the human's name. He flips open the Nokia N97 and starts typing, "Afghanistan or Iraq?" he questions nonchalantly.

John frowns disbelievingly as Mike puts on a knowing look, "Sorry?" the blond asked.

"Which is it—Afghanistan or Iraq?" He raises an eyebrow and returns the cell phone; John hesitantly takes it back and momentary looks at Mike skeptically. A smug smile was his only reply.

"Afghanistan." John clarifies after a while, "Sorry, how did you know?"

The doors opened yet again revealing Molly carrying a cup of coffee, "Ah, Molly, coffee." The male muses, "Thank you." He takes the coffee and stares at her less than a second before he questions, "What happened to the lipstick?"

"It wasn't working for me." The female replied with a tinge of annoyance in her voice despite the forced smile.

Turning, the male continued, "Really? I thought it was a big improvement." He sips the coffee grimacing at its taste, and places it down, "You're mouth's too small now."

"…Okay." She uttered and heads out the lab.

Silence ensued once again, "So, how do you feel about the violin?" the male muttered that seems as if he was talking to himself.

John looks at Molly then back to Mike, "I'm sorry, what?"

Fighting another urge to comment on the human's slowness he continued bending down as he types on the laptop, "I play the violin when I'm thinking, sometimes I don't talk for days on end," only then did he look at John, "Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other." He spoke in one breath with a hideously faked smile.

John retained his blank expression and turns to Mike, "Oh… you…You told him about me?"

"Not a word." Mike replied innocently.

The blond looked at the other with a stoic expression, "Then who said anything about flatmates?"

"I did," the former replied without skipping a beat as he wore his coat, "told Mike this morning that I would be a difficult man to find a flatmate for," I inwardly scoffed at the inside joke, "Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan...Wasn't that difficult a leap."

John looks crossed, "How did you know about Afghanistan?"

The male disregarded the question as he puts on his scarf and checks his phone, "Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it." He walks towards John, "We'll meet there tomorrow evening; seven o'clock." Another false smile, "Sorry—gotta dash. I left my riding crop in the mortuary." He pockets his phone and passes John.

"Is that it?" The human blond questions.

The male turns back, "Is that what?"

"We've only just met and we're gonna go and look at a flat?" He said as if every single word of it is the epitome of wrong.

"Problem?" The male retorts.

John looks incredulously at Mike, and turns back to the younger man seeing that Mike doesn't have any plans on helping, "We don't know a thing about each other; I don't know where we're meeting; I don't even know your name."

The younger male stared at John for a moment, he then open his mouth and all the words flew right out, "I know you're an Army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him—possibly because he's an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife, and I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic—quite correctly, I'm afraid."

The older male looks down on his leg, and back at the other.

"That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" He questioned with a smug smile, he turns and walks to the door and leans back into the door, "The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street," a haughty click-wink in John's way and turns to Mike, "Afternoon."

And he's gone.

Mike speaks up as John cast's him a look, "Yeah, he's always like that."

* * *

"Ah, Mr. Holmes." John greets with a placid smile reaching out a hand to the familiar male that walked out the cab. He absolutely has no idea why he actually came here, all the more the fact that he actually stalked the internet of information of the man he's going to leave it—he's absolutely got nothing.

"Sherlock, please" He passes as he shakes the other's hand.

John looks around, "Well, this is a prime spot. Must be expensive."

"Oh, Mrs Hudson, the landlady, she's giving me a special deal. Owes me a favour. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out." Sherlock states as he waits before the door.

"Sorry, you stopped her husband being executed?" the blond questioned truly intrigued by the matter.

Sherlock smirked, "Oh no." He replies, "I ensured it."

And after, the door opened revealing a modest looking old lady. A smile plastered on her face, "Sherlock, hello." She greets as she hugs him briefly.

As Sherlock was released, he immediately introduced the two stepping back as to present her the new flatmate, "Mrs. Hudson, Doctor John Watson."

"Hello." She greets lovingly.

John already liked the landlady, "How do?"

Mrs. Hudson gestures John inside, "Come in."

The two entered the room first, boxes clattered around, equipment unkept and other instruments scattered about. It was a mess—an absolute downright mess. But John seemed to like it, and Sherlock even more. Considering, these are _all _his things after all.

"Well, this could be very nice. Very nice indeed." John said,

Sherlock nods, "Yes. Yes, I think so. My thoughts precisely."

Sherlock continued, "So I went straight ahead and moved in." as John also spoke, "Soon as we get all this rubbish cleaned out…"

They stare at each other, "…Oh…" John muttered, "So this is all…"

The younger male fiddled around, "Well, obviously I can, um…" he looks around making half-attempts on fixing his stuffs, "straighten things up a bit." He said as he stabs the unopened envelopes with a utility knife.

John stares at the mantelpiece for a while, "That's a skull…" he stated pointing it with his crutch.

Sherlock almost smiled, "Friend of mine…" he replied, John eyed him carefully, "When I say friend—"

Mrs. Hudson entered with a smile, "What do you think, then, Doctor Watson?" She said gaining both their attentions, "There's another bedroom upstairs if you'll be _needing_ two bedrooms." She smiled with the silent implication.

_Mrs. Hudson. Predictable. My first flatmate—male. Me. Asexual. Not really a _pair_. Sigh. Whatever. It's so boring—I wonder what shall I do to pass the boredom. Humans get worked up at the most mundane of things._

"Of course we'll be needing two." John immediately replied with narrowed eyes.

Mrs. Hudson's eyes still held that glint, "Oh don't worry, there're all sorts around here." She pointed behind her, "Mrs. Turner's next door got married ones."

John gave up and looked at the oblivious Sherlock Holmes, still the latter makes no comment.

"Sherlock… the mess you've made." Mrs. Hudson sighed as she passed into the kitchen.

Sherlock made little attempts at cleaning; John sat down heavily on the chair. And stared at the eccentric git, "I looked you up on the internet last night."

The younger's ears perked up and turned, "Anything interesting?"

"Found your website, The Science of Deduction." John replied eyes hardening, "and a bit more on myths."

Sherlock ignored the last sentence and smiled, "So what did you think?"

John gives him a sarcastic look in which Sherlock feigns hurt, "You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb."

"Yes," He confirmed without anything else, "and I can read your military career in your face and your leg, and your brother's drinking habits in your mobile phone."

"How?" John uttered then immediately moved on, "And those myths—"

The younger grins wickedly and looks away as Mrs. Hudson returned holding the newpaper, "What about these suicides then, Sherlock? I thought that'd be right up your street." She paused, "Three exactly the same."

Sherlock strolls off against the window, "Four…" he eyes the police car below, "There's been a fourth. And there's something different this time."

Mrs. Hudson questions the younger and he merely looks at the door as someone enters into the flat, "Where?"

The stranger looks a bit breathless, "Brixton, Lauriston Gardens."

"What's new about this one?" Sherlock passes, "You wouldn't have come to get me if there wasn't something different."

"You know how they never leave notes?" He questioned and the two other's merely stared at their conversation thrown on both sides.

"Yeah,"

"Well, this one did." He finished, "Will you come?"

A pause, "Who's on forensics?"

"It's Anderson."

The younger grimaced, "Anderson won't work with me."

_That worthless human. So conventional and boring even more than the rest. Ugh. Not happening._

"Well, he won't be your assistant."

Sherlock groaned, "I _need_ an assistant." _And a blood donor, in that matter_. He mentally added.

The other surrendered, "Will you come?"

"Not in a police car…" He said obstinately, "I'll be right behind."

The latter looked around noticing the others, he nodded, "Thank you." And he hurries back down, and Sherlock did the thing that made John knit his brows.

Sherlock jumped clasping his hands exultantly twirling around the room, "Brilliant! Yes! Ah, four serial suicides, and now a note!" He looks at John, "Oh, its Christmas!" and he picks up his scarf and coat yet again, "Mrs. Hudson, I'll be late. Might need some food."

She smiles, "I'm your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper."

"Something cold will do. John, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don't wait up!" Sherlock continued, excited to leave the flat as soon as he's done fixing himself up.

John stares at Sherlock and his eyes narrows to the fact that Sherlock's eyes actually lighten—as in, literally lighten. They glow crimson over the edges lightly and return back into their original irises… John may not be an expert at myths but there are indeed some things. He glares at Sherlock as he returns…

"Hm… what?" Sherlock asks with a smirk as he puts on his scarf.

"Ever wondered about vampires?" John questioned.

The latter's face was indifferent, "They're merely creatures of the past, John," he replied and looked back down, "You're a doctor… in fact, you're an army doctor."

"Yes." John replies as he stands up.

"Any good?"

"_Very _good."

Sherlock paused, leaning against the door frame, "Seen a lot of injuries then, violent deaths."

"…Yes."

A smile wandered across Sherlock's mouth, "Bit of trouble too, I bet."

"Of course, yes." John replies and clears his throat quietly, "Enough for a lifetime. Far too much."

And finally, that smile echoed through Sherlock's eyes, "Want to see some more?"

"Oh, God, yes." John replies and hurries after Sherlock.

Mrs. Hudson faces them as they reached the door, "Both of you?"

"Impossible suicides? Four of them? There's no point sitting at home when there's finally something fun going on!" Sherlock replies enthusiastically as he kisses her by the cheek.

"Look at you, all happy." She frowned teasingly, "It's not decent."

Sherlock smiled, "Who cares about decent? The game, Mrs Hudson, is on!"

* * *

"Okay, you've got questions." Sherlock muttered as soon as they got in the cab.

"Lots," John muttered, he cleared his throat, "Yeah, where are we going?"

"Crime scene. Next?"

"Who are you?" John says, "I mean… What do you do?"

Sherlock eyes John for a moment, realizing that this man was already having guesses. Well, it isn't unexpected, he is after all a Hunter by blood, "What do you think?" He plays along.

John stays silent for a moment opens his mouth and shuts it, he starts to speak, "I'd say private detective…" he says but with evident hesitance.

"But?"

"…but the police don't go to private detectives." He finished, his face determined on actually trying to understand the ambiguous flatmate of his.

"I'm a consulting detective. Only one in the world. I invented the job." Sherlock replied, "Been one for a long time, I might add."

"What does that mean?" John questions, on both of Sherlock's statements. But sadly, Sherlock answers but one.

"It means when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me."

"Police don't consult amateurs."

Sherlock looks at him, "When I met you for the first time yesterday, I said, "Afghanistan or Iraq?" You looked surprised."

"Yes, how did you know?" John questioned appled by the sudden realization again.

Sherlock smiles, "I didn't know, I saw. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself says military. But your conversation as you entered the room..." he gestures at John, "…said trained at Bart's, so Army doctor – obvious. Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists. You've been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp's really bad when you walk but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan—Afghanistan or Iraq."

John glowered at him, "You said I had a therapist."

"You've got a psychosomatic limp—of course you've got a therapist. Then there's your brother." Sherlock muttered apathetically, "Your phone. It's expensive, e-mail enabled, MP3 player, but you're looking for a flatshare – you wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift, then. Scratches. Not one, many over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting next to me wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. Next bit's easy. You know it already."

"The engraving." John noted.

Harry Watson

From Clara

xxx

"Harry Watson: clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live. Unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so brother it is. Now, Clara." He smiled deceivingly, "Who's Clara? Three kisses say it's a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. She must have given it to him recently – this model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble then – six months on he's just given it away. If she'd left him, he would have kept it. People do – sentiment. But no, he wanted rid of it. He left her." He emphasized the 'left' strongly, "He gave the phone to you: that says he wants you to stay in touch. You're looking for cheap accommodation, but you're not going to your brother for help: that says you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife; maybe you don't like his drinking."

John smiled and shook his head, "How can you possibly know about the drinking?"

Returning the smile, he continued, "Shot in the dark. Good one, though. Power connection: tiny little scuff marks around the edge of it. Every night he goes to plug it in to charge but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone; never see a drunk's without them." With that, Sherlock spoke in a more normal matter, "There you go, you see – you were right."

"I was right?" he repeats mockingly, "Right about what?"

"The police don't consult amateurs." Sherlock said having the last word, yet again.

Silence wept through the cab, it was that peaceful and yet determinedly tense aura. Sherlock found it unnervingly soothing to simply stay here—John on the other hand was trying to take this all in.

"That…" John began, "was amazing."

The younger stared at him, shock not-so-written over his face, "Do you think so?"

"Of course it was. It was extraordinary; it was quite extraordinary." John nodded as if he was talking to himself than Sherlock.

Interesting… Sherlock smirked and scoffed, "That's not what people normally say." His voice was laced with a small hint of accusation and deride.

"What do people normally say?" John asks, a bit sad on Sherlock's part.

"'Piss Off'" He replied with a smile, looking John straight at the face.

They laughed for a moment and John's thoughts kicked in, "Oh, yeah. One more question." He said through the fit of silent laughter.

"Hm?" Sherlock questioned with a stifled laugh.

"Do you know Elhsom?" John questioned.

Sherlock stiffened visibly for a second but continued giggling, "Why?"

"Well… no reason. It just came out." The other quipped quietly.

"Oh, then yes. I know that their family lead the Vampire Kin." He stated normally, "They were all annihilated by the VAPA Project."

John nodded, "But… not everyone."

Sherlock looked at John, "What do you mean?"

"There were two recorded vampires got out alive." John whispered confidentially, "My father told me that it was a vampire that actually lead the VAPA Project and the other was his lover. There were no names given—all files were destroyed immediately after the implementation of the project."

"This is all confidential, is it not?" Sherlock spoke after a while.

John smiled, "Well, potential flatmates should know the worst about each other."

* * *

**ABloodStainedLetter, **

**over & out**


	3. Chapter Two

**[Title: Save Me From Myself**

**[Pairing: JohnLock**

**[Other notes: AU; Please read and review ^_^**

**[Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock BBC or Sherlock Holmes in any way possible.**

* * *

**Chapter Two: Insurgence**

* * *

Brixton, Lauriston Gardens.

Both figures walked out the cab, it was again—night. Sherlock's coat matching the darkness as they passed, "Did I get anything wrong?"

The blond took in a breath before speaking, "Harry and me don't get on, never have." His began, half remembering what Sherlock had said earlier, "Clara and Harry split up three months ago and they're getting a divorce; and Harry is a drinker."

"Spot on, then." The younger said mostly to himself, "I didn't expect to be right about everything."

John nodded, "And Harry's short for Harriet."

Sherlock brought himself to a complete stop realizing his mistake, in annoyance he huffed as John continued walking, "Harry's your sister."

John asked something that Sherlock ignored yet again, "_Sister!_"he hissed through gritted teeth.

"No, seriously, what am I doing here?" John groaned out.

The younger remained ignorant to John's query, "There's _always_ something." He spoke as he reached the police tape facing a female; she held quite a slender figure for a police.

"Hello, freak." She said, her accent dripping in every word.

John raised an eyebrow at the nickname, that wasn't nice now was it. He looked at Sherlock's reaction seeing as if the man was already used to it made him a bit sympathetic.

Sherlock shrugged it off, "I'm here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade—" He stopped abruptly, eyes shifting immediately between glasz to crimson in a split second then back again—too fast for an average human to catch, the scent of blood was heavy in the air… There were two—two creatures fought here. The whiff of human blood thicker than the other… it smelt faintly of vampire blood. It was too faint to get a front on—too weak to distinguish…

She scowled at the 6 foot male, "Why?" her voice brought Sherlock back to reality.

He eyed her for a while clearing his head, he then spoke calmly knowing it would unnerve her, "_I _was invited."

"Why?" She asked again.

_"Typical Donovan," _Sherlock thought in annoyance. With evident sarcasm he spoke, "I think he wants me to take a look."

She smirked, "Well, you know what I think, don't you?"

"Always, Sally," he retorted perfectly as he ducked under the police tape, "I even know you didn't make it home last night."

Her face became bitter, "I don't—" She turned to the other figure, "Er—who's this?"

"Colleague of mine, Doctor John Watson." He replies and turns to John in a beat, "Doctor Watson, Sergeant Sally Donovan." His voice dropped into dark irony yet again, "Old friend."

Sally crosses her arms, and knits her eyebrows, "Colleague? How do _you _get a colleague?" without waiting for an answer, her focus shifts to John, "What, did he follow you home?"

Clearing his throat, John replied, "Would it be better if I waited and…"

"No." Sherlock states with his back on John, he raised up the police tape for John to enter. Seeing that John didn't have much of a choice, he walks in and Donovan inhales sharply as she lifts the radio to her mouth.

"Freaks here," she said as the two ignored her, "bringing him in."

She leads the boys towards the house and right then and there, Sherlock begins to deduce the area. His eyes travelling over the area as they approached reaching the pavement before the house, he got a few ideas here and there.

A man clothe in coverall comes out of the building, his face scrunched up in evident displeasure.

"Ah, Anderson," Sherlock spoke breathily, "here we are again."

"It's a crime scene," the stone-faced man replied as if he was speaking to a child, "I _don't _want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?"

The detective inhaled through his nose—the air was thick with life fluid, but there was a tinge of a dull scent, "Quite clear," he spat, "And is your wife away for long?"

Anderson groaned, "Oh, don't pretend you worked that out. Somebody told you that." His denial was clear and useless on Sherlock. It was utterly annoying.

"You're deodorant told me that." Sherlock deadpanned.

The latter looks taken aback, "My deodorant?"

John couldn't help but stare along with the other bystanders, it was somehow amusing and bothersome to watch. Both parties were evenly matched on their immaturity—

Sherlock smirks, "It's for men."

"Well, of _course_ it's for men!" Anderson defended in confusion, "_I'm _wearing it!"

The consultant wanted to go against his obvious denial but decided on his first idea, "So's Sergeant Donovan." He pointed out tilting his head towards the said person.

John's eyes widened a fraction as Anderson looks around in shock at the female Sergeant, Sherlock sniffed the air meaningfully only to increase the infuriation of the opposite party, "Oh, I think it just vaporized." He smirked, "May I go in?"

"Now look, what_ever _you're trying to imply—"

"I'm not implying anything," Sherlock mutters as he passes them with a doctor silently trailing from behind, "I'm sure Sally came round for a nice little chat, and just happened to stay over." He looks back, "And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees."

With that, he walks inside the house with a smug smile playing over his lips leaving Anderson and Donovan staring at him in absolute repulsion. John passes Donovan and sneaks a glance over her knees and follows Sherlock immediately after. The army doctor was lead into a room in the ground floor where he finds a familiar face putting on coverall, Sherlock tells him to wear them.

"Who's this?" The Detective Inspector asks his eyes on the new face. He remembers seeing the same man in Sherlock's flat…

The said interrogate took off his gloves as he replied, "He's with me."

Lestrade looks at him, "He's with me."

Sherlock speaks sharply, "I _said_ he's with me."

John, unaware of the whole conversation, took his jacket off and picked one of the coverall… He stares at Sherlock who was simply putting on a latex gloves, "Aren't you gonna put one on?"

Sherlock looks at him sternly giving no proper reply. John shakes his head, why does he even bother. And then Sherlock spoke to Lestrade, "So, where are we?"

"Upstairs."

They were led up the staircase, "I can give you two minutes." The detective inspector said.

Inspecting the location, Sherlock spoke, "May need longer."

"Her name's Jennifer Wilson according to her credit cards." Lestrade began to explain, "We're running them now for contact—"

All of a sudden, an earsplitting cry shot across the building shattering the silence. Sherlock winced at the deafening pitch, his hearing was excessively susceptible—a scream was, by no means, desired. Then he felt a heavy feeling of another vampire, another presence that vanished just after. Still, the trio ran up towards the scream… As soon as the door opened, the consulting detective felt as if he was struck solidly in the face by his long inherited instinct. He could hear Lestrade's voice calling out to the medics—

Blood was splattered _everywhere_. Like a canvas that was painted by the demon himself... and amid the confines of the room was a girl, flat on her back. It was a miracle how she was able to survive with her front _recently _slashed deeply; she was looking frantically at Sherlock as blood persistent to choke her as it escaped from her mouth dripping along the sides. John was by her side, tilting her face ever so slightly.

Out of instinct, Sherlock's fangs elongated. The pointed edge piercing his tongue ever so slightly until he could taste the bitterness of his own blood, despite that, his mind began processing every bit of evidence that he could see… everything else that was left untainted.

'Mo… Moriarty…' she mouthed and instantly went limp after. Sherlock froze.

"What was that?" Lestrade whispered, his eyes trailing to the corpse. He called around yelling at the police, "Find out who broke in—immediately!"

"What's wrong?" John questioned.

Lestrade looked down at the body, "She wasn't like this five minutes ago—She was lying on her front. Dead. Same as the others, she didn't have this… wound…"

John let the female go carefully, his coverall stained with blood along with his gloves… Sherlock cleared his mind as he saw the blond's neck stained with blood, his silent urge pinning him with obscene need. He cleared his throat and removed his coat and scarf handing it to the DI who was about to retort but Sherlock already walked over to the female, his shoes' sole walking over the blood that puddle round her.

"Shut up." Sherlock voiced out as the medics started entering, but no one was actually speaking.

"We weren't saying anything—" The detective inspector said, still stone shock. His voice quivered a bit along that line, but no one dared to comment on it.

"You were thinking." He noted back, "It's annoying."

Everyone else exchanged surprised looks while the eccentric male reaches the unwounded side of the corpse, then his attention drawn to the scratch marks right beside the corpse's palm—Rache—already concluding the vast meanings in his head. He reached out to one of the corpse's hands taking note that the index finger layed along the 'E' obviously still trying to write something—left handed. He pulls out his handkerchief from his coat pocket; he wipes the nails in one stroke. Glasz eyes flicker next to the index and middle nails for those are the only ones with broken and ragged along the ends, the nail polish chipped, and an absolute contrast to her seemingly well kept nails.

He then stares at the word pushing out his earlier thought of _revenge_, and gets out the world _Rachel _instead seeing the numerous possibilities in the correct form.

It was impossible to simply know what happened considering she was soaked in blood, then Sherlock noticed something off… her hair. He passed his hand over an unbloodied side and noticed it was wet, then he tried it along the inner side of her sleeve—wet.

He reaches into her pocket and finds a folding umbrella, it's lower end stained with blood but the rest was, he wipes his fingers over his handkerchief's unstained side, and over the umbrella—dry.

Returning the umbrella, he takes out his small magnifier, avoiding the glass part as he delicately inspects the thin cold jewelry around the victim's left wrist, it was clean seeing how the blood easily got over the bracelet, more or less—clean.

Then the gold earing—clean.

Chain around her neck—cannot decipher. _Hypothesis: _Clean.

And returns back to the rings over her left finger, a wedding and engagement ring. He inspects it more, scratches and marks covered around it, he folds the handkerchief with one hand and uses a clean side to brush over the jewelry, it was indeed—dirty.

A wave of conclusion rushes within him in swift sequence: Married. Unhappily Married. Unhappily Married 10+ Years.

Then he removed the ring, leaving a thin circle of blood in its wake. He noted that the outside was—dirty. And oppositely on the inside... thus—Regularly removed.

He places the ring back and makes his final deduction: Serial adulterer.

Sadly, she was human—but he needed an answer for her last body impulses were… he raised tells John to move as he looks around the neck. He smirks and moves away.

"Got anything?" Lestrade asks finally after what seemed like a matter of seconds.

"Not much," came a nonchalant reply, he removes his gloves and hands it to one of the medics as he fishes out his mobile and begins typing over it.

Anderson was about to speak but Sherlock cut him off, "She's not German and it's not Rache. Shut up." Anderson glared at him full force but Sherlock continued to fiddle with his phone.

"So… she's not German then?" Lestrade voiced out.

Sherlock spoke, "Of course she's not. She's not from town, though…" he trailed off for a moment, "Intended to stay in London for one night… before returning home to Cardiff." He smirks after finding the info he needed, "So far, so obvious."

"Sorry—" John articulated gaining all the attention, "Obvious?"

"What about the message?" Lestrade asked right after.

The Consulting Detective ignores Lestrade and looks at John, "Dr. Watson," he began shifting towards the body, "what do you think?"

"Of the message?"

"Of the body," Sherlock pointed out dully, "You're a medical man."

Lestrade said gesturing the other two members standing right outside the door, "Wait, no. We have people here—"

"They won't work with me." He merely replied.

"I'm breaking every rule letting _you _in here—"

"Yes," Sherlock muttered smugly, "because you need me."

Lestrade gives up, "Yes, I do." He lowers his eyes and hands the other his scarf and coat, "God, help me."

"Doctor Watson?"

"Hm?"

"Oh, do as he says," The DI said in defeat, "Help yourself." He then walks out along with Anderson, bringing the medics away with a short apology.

John knelt down the second time, his limp becoming quite an obstacle in doing so.

"Well?" Sherlock voiced out.

"What am I doing here?" John whispered as he began checking over the girls wounds.

Sherlock smiled inwardly, "Helping me make a point."

"I'm supposed to be helping you pay the rent." He replies as he leans over the females mouth, looking over it.

"Yeah, well, this is more fun." Sherlock's eyes glowed bright red remembering the name—_Moriarty._

John looks at him and color gone, "Fun?" he spat, "There's a woman lying dead."

"Perfectly sound analysis," Sherlock muttered as he pulled on his coat, "but I was hoping you'd go deeper."

Lestrade comes into the room and John sighs heavily, "Asphyxiation—from earlier. Passed out while choking on her own blood… and these wounds are fatal, so… blood loss. But… you said she was already dead…" John stared blankly, "I've got nothing—except something you can't believe."

"You know what it was, you already told me earlier." Sherlock noted a grin behind his façade.

"Vampires." John noted a bit embarrassed.

Lestrade groaned, "Sherlock, two minutes I said—tell me if you've got something believable. I need anything you've got."

"Victim is in her late thirties. Professional person, going by her clothes; I'm guessing something in the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink. Travelled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London for one night. It's obvious from the size of her suitcase." He stopped as the DI alleged something.

"Suitcase?"

John looks around trying to spot a suitcase—none.

"Suitcase, yes." Sherlock stated in a matter-of-factly, "She's been married at least ten years, but not happily. She's had a string of lovers but none of them knew she was married."

"Oh, for God's sake, if you're just making this up…" Lestrade taunted.

"Her wedding ring." Sherlock noticed pointing at the ring, "Ten years old at least. The rest of her jewelry has been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring. State of her marriage right there. The inside of the ring is shinier than the outside – that means it's regularly removed. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. It's not for work; look at her nails. She doesn't work with her hands, so what or rather who does she remove her rings for? Clearly not one lover; she'd never sustain the fiction of being single over that amount of time, so more likely a string of them. Simple."

"That's brilliant." John said admiringly, obviously unaware that he said it out loud. Only when Sherlock looked at him did he catch up, "Sorry."

"Cardiff?" Lestrade asked next.

Sherlock groaned, "It's obvious, isn't it?"

"It's not obvious to me…" John muttered silently.

Pausing, the consulting detective looks at the two in lassitude, "Dear God, what is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring." He groaned, "Her sleeve: it's slightly damp—no, not the one tainted with blood, the other side. She's been in heavy rain in the last few hours. No rain anywhere in London in that time. Her hair, wet even though she's got an umbrella in her left-hand pocket but it's dry and unused: not just wind, strong wind—too strong to use her umbrella. We know from her suitcase that she was intending to stay overnight, so she must have come a decent distance but she can't have travelled more than two or three hours because her coat still hasn't dried. So, where has there been heavy rain and strong wind within the radius of that travel time?"

"That's fantastic," John spoke out of turn.

Sherlock eyed him, "D'you know you do that out loud?"

"Sorry." He apologized, "I'll shut up."

"No…" The Consulting Detective said with a hidden smile, "It's fine."

Lestrade grumbled, "Why d'you keep saying suitcase?"

"Yes, where is it?" He turns 360 degrees, "She must have had a phone or an organizer. Find out who Rachel is."

"She was writing 'Rachel'?"

Sherlock suppressed the urge to roll his eyes, "No, she was leaving an angry note in German!" he said, voice dipped in sarcasm, "Of course she was writing Rachel; no other word it can be. Question is: why did she wait until she was dying to write it?"

"How d'you know she had a suitcase?"

"Side of the right leg: tiny splash marks on the heel and calf, not present on the left—the blood ruled most of it out but you can see the tiny darker patches. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase beside her with her right hand. Don't get that splash pattern any other way. Smallish case, going by the spread. Case that size, woman this clothes-conscious: could only be an overnight bag, so we know she was staying one night." He said gesturing over the parts he mentioned, he straightened himself, "Now, where is it? What have you done with it?"

"There wasn't a case—" The Inspector replied crossed as Sherlock asked him to repeat it, "There wasn't a case. There was _never _any suitcase."

Sherlock rushes out, "Suitcase! Did anyone find a suitcase?" he called out loudly as the two followed him out, "Was there a suitcase in this house?"

"Sherlock, there was no case!" The Inspector yelled yet again as Sherlock dashed down the staircase. The same question on his lips.

"But they take the poison themselves; they chew, swallow the pills themselves. There are clear signs, even you lot couldn't miss them." Sherlock said, a grin playing wildly over his lips as he raised both his hands in realization.

"Yeah, right… thanks," He called out again, "and?!"

"It's murder, all of them. I don't know how," Sherlock muttered out loud though he remembers the vampire—but he knew it was unrelated to the main killer, Moriarty wouldn't kill with his own hands, "but they're not suicides, they're killings—serial killings." A smile finally broke out his face, "We've got ourselves a serial killer. I love those. There's always something to look forward to."

"Why are you saying that?"

He spoke to himself more than the others, "Her case! Come on, where is her case? Did she eat it?! Someone else was here, and they took her case." He began gesturing on his words, "So the killer must have driven her here; forgot the case was in the car."

"She could have checked into a hotel, left her case there." John supplied.

Sherlock looked up, "No, she never got to the hotel. Look at her hair. She colour-coordinates her lipstick and her shoes. She'd never have left any hotel with her hair still looking..." he stopped in enlightenment, "Oh! _Oh_!" He clasps his hands in delight.

"Sherlock?" John called, a bit worried for his peculiar flatmate.

Lestrade continued, "What is it, what?"

"Serial killers are always hard. You have to wait for them to make a mistake." Sherlock proved, and Lestrade retorted and the detective merely replied, "Oh, we're done waiting— Look at her, really look! Houston, we have a mistake. Get on to Cardiff: find out who Jennifer Wilson's family and friends were. Find Rachel!" He dashed down the staircase reaching the bottom in record time already leaving from the view.

"Of course, yeah—but what mistake?!"

"PINK!" Sherlock yells as he returns and he dashes out again.

* * *

**the-science-of-evidence,**

******over & out**


	4. Chapter Three

**[Title: Save Me From Myself**

**[Pairing: JohnLock**

**[Other notes: AU; Please read and review ^_^**

**[Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock BBC or Sherlock Holmes in any way possible.**

* * *

**Chapter Three: For The Past****…**

* * *

"He's gone." The seemingly fleeting statement caught John of guard.

"Who, Sherlock Holmes?" He questioned, the name a bit familiar on his lips.

Donovan nodded, "Yeah, h'just took off," she sighed heavily, "He does that…"

John looked around, "Is he coming back?"

"Didn't look like it."

"Right." John said. To be honest, his hands weren't shaking earlier… now, it was hard to keep it still for a few seconds, "Uh, sorry… where am I?"

"Brixton," the woman replied.

"Right," he breathed out, the place unbelievably vague to him, "Er… d'you know where I could get a cab? It's just… well, my leg…"

Donovan hesitated and pulled up the tape for him, "Er… oh, try the main road."

"Thanks." He muttered as he leaves.

"But you're not his friend." The woman calls out, he turns back to her in confusion, "He doesn't _have _friends. So… who _are _you?"

John licked his lips, "I'm… I'm nobody." The words cut himself—it was true, all true, "I just met him."

"Okay, bit of advice then," She said understandingly, "You're normal. He's, well… just stay away from that guy."

The doctor seems confused, "Why?"

"He's… There're rumors around—he's, I don't know if I should be saying this but," she looks around, almost scared herself, "You know why he's here? He's not paid or anything. He likes it. He gets off of it—the weirder the crime, the more." She shrugged, "And people fear him because he's habits… he resembles to a _vampire_ but no one could truly prove it. One day just showing up won't be enough. One day, we'll be standing round a body and Sherlock Holmes'll be the one that put it there."

"You… think… he's a vampire?" John shrugged.

"Well, I wouldn't be surprised if he _were_," She ran her fingers through her hair.

"Why would he do that?—killing, I mean. He hasn't done it… has he?"

Donovan shook her head, "He hasn't killed anyone _yet_… but it's because he's a psychopath. And _psychopaths get bored._"

Then Lestrade's orders ended their conversation as she was called, she turned back to John and stated with finality, "Stay away from Sherlock Holmes." And with that, she left.

John limped down the pavement, to his right; a public telephone box begins to ring. He stops momentarily to stare at it, feeling paranoid, he shakes his head and walks down and right after—the phone stops ringing. A few paces later, John is already walking over Brixton High Road and tries to hail a taxi in which he fails quite miserably at. Each taxi passes, and by the fast food restaurant close by, the payphone begins to ring. He turns and sees that one of the serving staff was already going to reach it but it stops abruptly. Another few steps and another public phone box near him begins to ring, he goes inside and lifts the phone beyond his better judgment, "Hello?"

A man's voice speaks through the phone, dark yet smooth, "There is a security camera on the building to your left. Do you see it?"

John frowns, "Who's this? Who's speaking?"

"Do you see the camera," the voice spoke calmly, "Dr. Watson?"

Swallowing hard, John looks through the window of the phone box at the CCTV cam high up on the wall of a nearby building, "Yeah." He said, "I see it."

"Watch."

The camera which was focused on the same phone box he was using turns away.

A light pause, "There is another camera on the building opposite you. Do you see it?"

The doctor turns to the directed location, "Mmm."

And with that, the camera swivels away like the first.

"And finally, at the top of the building on your right."

Without much of a choice, John looked at it again. A bit amused than anxious, "How are you doing this?"

"Get into the car, Doctor Watson," the voice stated coldly just as a jet black car pulls up at the curbside near the phonebooth, "I would make some sort of threat, but I'm sure your situation is quite clear to you." And with that. The line died out.

Again, without another option, he found himself sitting silently in the back seat of the car as it drives away. His instincts were screaming at him, to leave, to jump out, to do _anything_ to get out of the bloody car. But he didn't, he already left that. He kicked that out of his life… So he placed his attention on an attractive lady sat beside him. Her only focus was her blackberry…

"Hello," John said after clearing his throat.

The woman looked at him with a bright smile and looked back at the phone, "Hi."

The doctor began small talk, "What's your name, then?"

"Er…" she fiddled with her phone, "Anthea."

John looked confused, "Is that your real name?"

She smiled, "No."

He feels that _that _was the end of their conversation and simply nods and looks at the rear window and turns back again, "I'm John." He pressed on.

"Yes, I know."

"Any point in asking where I'm going?"

"None at all…"

She turns and smiles briefly, then back to her BB, "…John."

"Okay."

They pulled up in a somehow dimmed and empty warehouse. But there was a man, in a suit standing in the centre of the area leaning poshly against a black umbrella with an empty chair before him. He watches John get out the car, "Have a seat, John."

"You know, I've got a phone." John said calmly as he walks towards the man, learning that it was good to ignore people's statements every now and then. He looks around the warehouse in question, "I mean, very clever and all that, but… you could've just phoned me. On my phone." He stops, leaving a few paces between him and the man.

"When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet." The stranger stated simply with a fake smile, his voice stern, and face passive, "Hence, this place." He looks at John, "The leg must be hurting you. Sit down."

"I don't wanna sit down." He said, almost childlike. _Almost_.

The former male looks at him curiously. "You don't seem very afraid."

"You don't seem very frightening." John quipped with a frown, already tired of people coming in and out of his life because of some unconventional consulting detective.

With that, the man chuckles, "Ah, yes," he mutters, "The bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think?" His eyes grew cold and his voice stern, "What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?"

"I don't have one. I barely know him. I met him…" John contemplates on the date, silently shocked at realizing his next word, "yesterday."

"Mmm, and since yesterday you've moved in with him and now you're solving crimes together." The stranger smirked, "Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?"

John ignored the implication and questioned harshly, "Who _are _you?"

"An interested party."

The doctor was getting more and more annoyed by the second, yesterday he meets Sherlock—now he's being dragged around by people trying to do God knows what, "Interested in Sherlock? Why? I'm guessing you're not friends."

"You've met him." The man spoke fondly, "How many 'friends' do you imagine he has? I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having."

"And what's that?"

"An enemy."

John looks confused; this was getting stupid, "An enemy?"

"In his mind, certainly. If you were to ask him, he'd probably say his arch-enemy." He looks a bit thoughtful, "He does love to be dramatic."

"Well, thank God you're above all that."

The man frowns at the statement and John's phone made an attempt to go out for a text alert, he digs out his phone and opens it…

**Baker Street.**

**Come at once**

**if convenient.**

**SH**

"I hope I'm not distracting you," the stranger stated.

John looked at him, "Not distracting me at all," he replied casually as he stares at the text and places it back in his pocket.

"Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?" the other asked.

John almost wanted to scream—This again?!—people were so intent on pushing him away, "I could be wrong... but I think that's none of your business."

"It _could _be." The former said again.

"It really _couldn't._"

"You seem not to understand, Doctor Watson. You do not know _who _or _what, _Sherlock Holmes is." The man's voice was sharp end rough edged, "You… you are from the Watson Clan, correct?" John looks taken aback, but the person continued, "My, it seems Sherlock Holmes really got a handful. The last male of the Watsons… Very interesting indeed. I was against the idea at first but based by your reaction…" The stranger trailed off and pulled out a book, "If you _do _move into, um… two hundred twenty-one B Baker Street, I'd be happy to pay you a _meaningful _sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way." He puts the book away, "But I am exceedingly discouraging you of doing so… but if…"

"Why?"

The man smiled, "Because you're not a wealthy man."

"…In exchange for what?"

With a sigh, "Information. Nothing… indiscreet. Nothing you'd feel .. uncomfortable with." He said evenly, "Just tell me what he's up to."

"Why?"

"I worry about him." The stranger's voice had an affectionate tone, "Constantly."

"That's nice of you," John said insincerely, he couldn't help it.

Raising an eyebrow, the stranger continued, "But I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unmentioned. We have what you might call a... difficult relationship."

Another text alerts John's mobile, he pulls out his phone and opens it…

**If inconvenient,**

**Come anyway.**

**SH**

The ex-army doctor looks up at the man, "No."

"But I haven't mentioned a figure," the man bribed.

"Don't bother," he slips his phone back into his pocket.

The man chuckled, "You're very loyal, _very_ quickly."

The doctor shook his head, "No, I'm not." He said dismissively, "I'm just not interested."

With a heavy look, the stranger looks at him and takes out his notebook and opens it again, "'Trust issues'," he read out loud, "it says here."

John looks unnerve for the second time, "What's that?"

"Could it be that you've decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of _all _people?" The stranger looked at him in disbelief. This was unparalleled. This was simply too entertaining—Sherlock Holmes, certified killer and head of the vampires. Ruled mercilessly and brutally killed humans and vampires alike; detested hunters to his very core. And now, this loyal lapdog of the Queen, now the royal lapdog of Sherlock Holmes. My, Sherlock _still_ has his manipulation on people.

"Who says I trust him?" John spat.

"You don't seem the kind to make friends easily."

"Are we done?" John questions.

The stranger looks up at John, "You tell me." His interrogate walked away and he called out, "I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him, but I can see from your left hand that's not going to happen."

The doctor stops dead, his shoulders tensing then dropping. He shakes his head and turns, "My what?"

The man walks closer, "Show me." He nodded towards John's left hand as he speaks, and now he plants the tip of his umbrella on the floor and leans casually on it like a man who is used to having his orders obeyed. John, however, is not going to be intimidated and deliberately shifts his feet under him as if digging in. He raises his left hand, bending it at the elbow, and stands still. His message is clear: if the man wants to look at his hand, he'll have to come to him. Apparently unperturbed by this belligerence, the man strolls forward, hooking the handle of the umbrella over his arm as he reaches for John's hand.

John instantly pulls his hand back a little, "Don't."

"Remarkable."

"What is?"

The stranger smirked, "Most people blunder round this city, and all they see are streets and shops and cars. When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield." He smiled, "And how right you are… You've seen it already, haven't you?"

"What's wrong with my hand?"

The stranger stares at his hand, "You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand." John nodded, "Your therapist thinks its post-traumatic stress disorder. She thinks you're haunted by memories of your military service." John made a rejoinder but he continued, "Fire her. She's got it the wrong way round. You're under stress right now and your hand is perfectly steady… You're not haunted by the war, Doctor Watson..." he grins at his final words, "you miss it."

John stopped.

"Welcome back," the male spoke in a whisper, "Time to choose a side, Doctor Watson—the vampires…" The stranger said his eyes going crimson, "or the hunters…?"

"W-what?" John snapped out of his reverie.

"Another war is about to begin, Watson. And you have to decide which side are you on…" The stranger laughed, "Ask Sherlock Holmes for a change, it'll be… a fascinating conversation."

"The vampires have already been extinct for years!" John yelled.

"Try telling that to Sherlock," He walked to the ledge with a sickening smile, he dropped the umbrella as he stood on the ledge, "The name's Jim Moriarty—remember that." And he jumped back, a loud laughter echoing in his wake.

* * *

**Sorry for the short chapter =_= I had to cut it there.**

**the-science-of-evidence,**

**over & out**


End file.
